14. Underberg, 1990 - Sanctuary

In which Eleanor delights in the Barrier of Spears

Where the peaks spear the sky and the river carves the land: this is Elle's sanctuary. The world is alright, she is alright. For now.

Eleanor

We reach the top of the krantz¹ and pause to take it all in. To our left the skyline of the Drakensberg Escarpment rising above Natal. uKhahlamba, it is called in Zulu, the Barrier of the Spears. It’s an apt name for its peaks that bar the way from the coastal plain to the interior. From our vantage point, virtually the entire Southern Drakensberg is visible. Tig and I have brought a small group of University friends from the Mountain Club to this, our family’s most special of places. As everyone stands, catching their breaths from the scramble up, Tig points out the most prominent, and familiar peaks.

“There, that’s Rhino, and there, behind Bamboo, that’s Hodgson’s Peak, and that one—all the way to the north, the last one we can see, that’s Giant’s, before the Berg swings to the west and carries all the way up to Mont-aux-Sources, which we can’t see from here.” 

I let Tig do the talking. These are more his friends than mine, but as I’ve become part of the University Mountain Club, they’re becoming my friends too now. I have to remember to call him James, or Jem, with them though. I get it—I wouldn’t want to be called kookaburra by my brother in public either. 

It’s good to see him so happy. And stable and settled. The last few years, since he went off the rails, then got the shock of the bipolar diagnosis, have been rough. It’s become part of our family’s dark humor to joke that we cursed him with the nickname Tigger. 

But he, like me, always finds peace here. It’s just that kind of place. 

The farm, the cottage, the Drakensberg mountains: this is my spiritual home. This is my real church. Every time I come I feel my body unwind and unfurl a little more. I feel my feet burrow deep into the real Africa here—the land of light, majestic beauty, and the peaceful stillness of mountain and veld. 

We’re all quiet, taking in the splendor of the Drakensberg mountains. Across the valley from where we are standing is Bamboo Mountain. Its fingers point from its craggy sandstone summit to the uMzimkhulu River, its ravines and valleys dark with trees, its ridges bright with green grassy slopes, broken periodically with narrow horizontal rock bands. 

Below us the uMzimkhulu River meanders through the giant valley it has carved, slicing through the soft sandstone of the Little Berg, until far out of sight it ends its journey at Port Shepstone. Here at our feet it is not yet the slow, silty broad river of the Natal Midlands, it is still an energetic mountain river, rising in flood from time to time, constantly threatening to wash away the only bridge that connects the farm to the dirt road to Underberg. 

We love to watch people’s faces when we first bring them to the farm and take them across that bridge. Even I, after years of coming here, feel my stomach drop as we make the last turn in the road and suddenly you are upon it: a short sharp drop to the timber poles of the bridge decking, while underneath the river rushes. There’s two feet to spare of decking on either side of the wheels of the car, so technically there’s plenty of space. But it doesn’t feel that way. It feels death defyingly narrow. And that one wrong tug of the steering wheel as the car jostles over the round poles will send it over the bridge. 

But then you get this. 

We walk across the broad flat sweep of the basin behind the krantzes, before it rises quickly up to Garden Castle, Bamboo’s twin peak on this side of the river. A shy eland, so rare to see here, moves off in the distance. We pause a while, not talking much. Alasdair, one of Tig’s friends, reaches for my hand, and we walk side by side for a bit, following behind the others. 

We reach the stream that drains the basin and follow it to the waterfall. We scramble down next to it and finally continue back on the path to the cottage, formed by the many feet going to and fro over the years.

Grabbing drinks from the fridge, we come and sit on the stoep² between the two bedroom wings, continuing to take in the view across the valley to Bamboo, while we watch cars navigate the dirt road through its twists and turns to the hotel further up the valley. 

“This is an incredibly special place,” Alasdair says reverently, his arm wrapped around my shoulders. The others murmur their agreement. 

“We know,” Tig and I say, so glad to share. I wish Meredith could see this too. 

The farm is our family’s most precious treasure. Even Henry is better here—where he can just be let loose to run as wildly as he likes. The doctor’s are calling him disabled now. But to me he’s just Henry, my handful of a little brother. 

The world is alright, I am alright, when I’m at the farm.

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Bonus Materials

• The farm then and now: The farm, the bridge, the views, the waterfall…it all still exists. And is as stunning and special as ever.

• Underberg and the Southern Drakensberg: spectacular in any season.

1.  Afrikaans, cliff or precipice

2. Afrikaans, similar to a porch or a shaded verandah, but always with a concrete, slate or tile floor, roofed and partly enclosed so that it’s sheltered.